


What We Trade Away

by Bidawee



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Consensual Sex, Drinking, Implied Mpreg, Impregnation, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sexual Content, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 10:16:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19461904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Bidawee
Summary: They took Connor’s hope from him for over three long years and then sent him to a place with people like him, where not even the general manager believes in the ability of his players to win. He has to have this baby, to take back control.





	What We Trade Away

**Author's Note:**

> the tags on this story cover any and all triggers. the end notes go into detail about why there's a consensual sex tag and mildly dubious consent. please read the end notes first if you have any concerns. this is not intended to be a dark story but there are some dark overtones if read into a certain way
> 
> i wrote this all yesterday in response to the connor brown trade so expect it to have its fair share of problems. usually when i write stories in six hours they are not of supreme quality but man! i had to do something. NOT BETA'D

The fan blades spinning lazily in the reception hall dust them with cold air. Connor’s hot up to the collar; downs his water three times and is on the waiter’s ass whenever he comes by with trays about getting more. From a glance, someone might assume he’s trying to sober up. They couldn’t be farther from the truth of the matter.

That night is a merry-go-round of emotions: from happiness to sadness on a loop that continues well into the evening when the stars come to adorn the sky in silver. It makes him woozy, trying to keep track of the people coming in and out, introducing themselves to him and knocking their glasses together in celebration.

Don’t get him wrong, he’s more than happy for Zach and his now-wife. Watching him now in his suspenders, suit jacket over the back of his chair, dancing in formation with the groomsmen, makes Connor’s chest clench. Once upon a time, he might be up there by his side, might’ve been if things stayed the same from their rookie year. 

Everyone else is having a good time right there with him, it’s Connor who is the exception.

A few people have already come forward believing to be doing good by giving him a heads up about what’s going on at negotiating tables. What should have been hours of him gorging himself on wedding cake and the talk of the town he spends sitting by himself, in the glut of what people tell him on repeat. What should be a night of happy memories is anything but.

Every time he gets control over his emotions and finds himself no longer balancing on the precipice of defeat, someone else will come to him. They will lean in and keep their voice at a moderate level so that even over the thunk of the speakers in the background he will understand every word they say to him. 

After the third time it happens, he can’t do it anymore. He passes the line of people at the bar and walks out alone. He leaves behind his best friends, in the middle of an energetic dance that has their hair flying in every direction. It will take a long time for them to notice he’s gone, if they even do. Connor, ever in the masochistic mood tonight, thinks of it as an acting metaphor for his last year on the team, living on borrowed time.

Instead of vying for the shuttle to pick him up with the families and their young children, he walks to the hotel by himself. The cold night air fans his face and the back of his neck. Cars driving off the highway exit flash their headlights at him as they pass.

As soon as he gets in, he tosses his clothes in every direction. He’s done playing the part they need him to. He doesn’t want to be in uniform anymore. He wants out of his skin.

He turns the fans on in the bathroom and lays a towel on the ground at the shower door, stepping in and staring down the shower head. Hot water sprays up in his face. It pelts his skin in sheets, a foaming snake under him as it swirls around the tiny drain holes. His elbow hits the shower door as he browses the selection of toiletries in there with him, hotel shampoo and a bar of white soap that has the faint smell of coconut and the white sand on a Caribbean beach. 

He turns the shower knob all the way to the right until the water is ready to boil. All over his body he sees red patches rise, following the curve of his spine down to his abdomen and then his knees. Touching the skin produces a light sting, as if he has been out in the sun too long and got burned. In time, his whole body is covered, dressing him head to toe in a jersey of red.

The steam rising up in plumes makes his eyes water. His nails cut into the bar soap and drag it down his stomach, then up to his chest. He uses his free hand to scrub. His intention is not to hurt himself but it looks that way; the seesaw motion of back and forth is there to get rid of that thin membrane he can feel is there on him, of shame and hurt encasing his body in a shell. 

He remembers loving the week-long trips to the southern hemisphere with Mitch and Matt on account of them being the few places in the world he could exist in that had not a care for hockey. In Toronto, he would have to wear this face, whether it be because a fan was asking for an autograph or a middle-aged man with a beer belly was giving his opinion of the team’s success over the span of a season. Over the years, the skin he grew to protect himself with never shed. It added more layers, cocooning him in promises that one day, it would all be worth it.

The Maple Leafs are still a pale imitation of the ghosts from a half a century back, in the television’s view of black and white, a parade with a headcount because ‘winning came natural to them.’ Him being there never did anything for them, didn’t help the scales weigh their chance at the Cup.

They had their close calls, their successes and failures. He was there for all of them. Hockey is not just hockey; be it you’re the best player on the team, the fourth-liner that packs a punch, or the enforcer that puts up numbers in the single digits in goals, you are just another number that the business can use.

Only four hours away from his hometown in Toronto, that’s what hurts the most about the trade. If it were farther, he could leave it all behind and have a fresh start with new names and faces to learn. Four hours is not enough time, Leaf fans will make the drive to come see them play. His new locker room will have the three or so Leaf players that are on the same page as he is, not a comfort by any means with the positive public reception to their trade--implying that he is like them, something to dispose of for the betterment of Toronto. All around him will be reminders that he was once on the top of the world. Now, he’s at the bottom of it.

It’s wrong of him but inside that pressure cooker of emotions comes resentment. It points a bony finger at Mitch and blames him. Connor should have known. He read when Patrick Marleau made headlines talking about his love of his two boys, that this could be the push they need to sign Marner with. Pawns and knights by design, they protect the kings and queens on the board. If moving pieces makes that possible, the expectation is that they lie down and take it, and Marleau took it.

He steps out of the shower and dries his legs and stomach with the complimentary towel they keep on the rack. He shakes his hair out and uses the press of the towel to pick up the water droplets. His skin is an angry red. He wears it like war paint. 

He’s in for the shock of his life when he exits the bathroom with only a towel around his hips for decency. There’s someone there around the bend, and having not heard a knock on the door or the hinges as they swung open, Connor is not going in expecting company--he’s not expecting to see Freddie leaning on the door, in his white button up and tie. His right hand is loosening his belt, pulling up the shirt from where it tucks in around his hips.

“How did you get in here?” Connor asks. He points at the door. “Get out of my room.” He means for it to sound stronger than it does. The end of his sentence comes out a lot like a whine.

“We need to talk,” says Freddie.

“I don’t want to talk to anyone right now.”

“It’s about the trade.”

Connor looks up. All of the anger building inside of him begins to shake. It wants out.

“I said, _get out._ ”

“Calm down.”

“Don’t fucking tell me to calm down.” Connor throws the closest projectile he has at Freddie, his shirt. Freddie is not expecting the attack. He steps to the side in time and grabs Connor by the wrist before he can bend over and pick up a shoe.

Connor takes out his anger on Freddie, who absorbs the blows without saying a word. Connor pounds his fists on his chest, grabs at his shirt and pops a button or two free. Freddie gives him some leash to work with, waiting until Connor has worked out the worst of what came over him in the shower.

The lack of control he has should be degrading, particularly because he’s looking at someone that is the face of it. If Freddie harbours any judgement, it doesn’t show. He keeps them as equals and only once Connor returns to form does he try talking to him again. 

“Do you want to stay in Toronto, Connor?” Freddie comes out with the big question. Connor’s not sure about it himself. He keeps thinking about how he was always the lowest common denominator, a means to another's end. 

Toronto is a great city with great people. It’s where he learned how to ride a bicycle and skate with both legs. The Leafs will always have a spot in his heart when not clouded by the envy that comes with being second best in a league that only respects the first place. He bears no ill-will toward his teammates. They were great guys. He loved coming to the rink in the morning to practice with them.

Therein lies the truth of the matter, that this is all just a workup he’s perpetuating because he’s trying to make life seem worse than it was when in fact, it was pretty fucking good. Really good, in fact. He wouldn’t give up the world for it. 

His eyes feel heavy, like they’re about to fall out of his head. His vision blurs and there’s pressure right above his lip, under his nose. His tear ducts have no place to put everything.

He’s going to lose it, right in front of his now former goalie. This is what Freddie will remember him by. Amazing to think about how they met through the most spectacular of circumstances only for their goodbye to be anything but. 

“Of course I do.” He chokes up; swallowing does nothing to get rid of the saliva soaking in his mouth. “This is my home.”

Freddie gets closer to him. His eyes capture the scene in front of him: a Connor dressed with water droplets and his own tears. He’s desperate, he will do anything.

“What if I told you I had a way to make you stay.”

Freddie speaks so quiet it’s hard to understand what he’s saying. When Connor does figure it out, he presses down any excitement that comes to meet Freddie’s words. He’s been where Freddie is, had to sit in denial for weeks. It does strange things to your mind, gives you power where you have none.

“That’s--that’s just bullshit, man. I’m sorry. Everyone knows that I’m done for.”

“I’m not denying you are, I’m saying that if you want to live and be in Toronto for the rest of your career, I have an idea you might like. Or, not like per se but agree with.”

Connor is about to ask for more when the shouts from next door bleed through the thin hotel walls. Someone’s having a good time over there. It’s all very surreal having them be right there, living their lives as if his wasn’t falling apart. He can’t even lick his wounds in peace.

The lines on Freddie’s forehead become more pronounced, ageing him by a year or two. “We can’t talk about this here, how about we go back to mine and get some drinks in us?”

Connor crosses one arm over the other. He tucks his hands in his armpits. “I don’t understand what about this needs me to leave this room.”

“You can hear people drinking canned beer one door over, clear as day. I can’t have anyone listen in on this. It’s not safe for me or for you.”

“You make it sound like we’re about to commit arson.”

“Connor, I’m serious. I wouldn’t come to you if I wasn’t serious. Please come home with me.”

“Freddie, I know you think you have been where I’m about to be but it’s not the same. Not even close. You have no idea what this is like for me and right now, I just need to be alone, please.”

He stacks his throat with as much grief as he can to put up the warning signs that Freddie needs to be reading. Not that it matters, Freddie bulldozes over them to get to the point he’s trying to make.

“I’m not trying to say that I know what you’re feeling, all I’m offering is the chance to help. I think we could mutually benefit. Unless you want to stay in Ottawa, that is.”

He’s playing cat teaser with what Connor wants, he knows that. When Freddie gets an idea in his head he expands on it using a series of other ideas that come into orbit. It leads him to do things most players would consider out of the realm of plausibility, like dunking himself, half-naked, into a tub of ice cubes all in the idea of helping him to become a better goalie. Freddie is extreme.

He shouldn’t get into the car with him. Freddie’s lips might have touched alcohol. He could just be taking advantage of the situation to drive Connor home to his Toronto residence and use him for company he’s not in the mood to give. Both scenarios are likely. Then there’s the third option, something not on the maps. He fears that worst of all. 

Freddie, being a man of few words, knows how to use the ones he does pick well. Connor’s is in the elevator going down to the ground floor when Freddie starts laying down the brick for what could be the path to redemption. For his own sake, Connor operates under the logic that if even one of Freddie’s promises could be true then he would be a fool for giving up on him. It’s not like he has anything to lose anymore.

Freddie’s apartment has furniture but is empty. He’s living in Denmark right now, of course. The trinkets that brighten up a room, family heirlooms and photographs, are gone. It looks like a house you would see in a catalogue, nice to browse but aching and empty in the places where it matters. A thick smell of vinegar is in the air.

Connor places down the small suitcase he had packed for the wedding, travel-sized and something his mother was good on loaning him. He had it in his mind that he’d spend the night drinking and would need that hotel room for an overnight stay. Looking at where he ended up, he’s not too far off the mark.

Freddie closes the door behind them, locking them in darkness, the only reprieve being the stripes of light that come in using the blinds. His eyes are dark, they make him look like a completely different person. 

“Let me give you a baby,” he says. 

Connor doesn’t compute for a second. _“What?”_ Connor pushes his arm as a way of getting him to continue.

Freddie too looks like a deer in the headlights. It takes him a second to resume the position he was on. “What I meant to say was, what if we used a pregnancy as a way to tie your contract to Toronto.”

Of all the things Connor was thinking about him doing, nothing even came close to what the truth of it all ended up being. He opens and shuts his mouth in rapid succession.

Freddie waits him out; is nothing but kind as Connor laughs in his face. “Is this a joke?”

“No.”

“You want,” he points at Freddie, then himself, “to put a baby in me? So that I can keep playing in Toronto? What, are you crazy?”

“I said you wouldn’t like it.”

“I don’t know why you think me having a kid is going to change anything.”

Freddie appears to realize that he can’t use any physical show of good faith to help calm Connor down, leaving him at the mercy of his English. “Let me explain, please.” 

As stupid it may be, Connor can’t deny that he is curious about what led Freddie to take this stance with confidence. Asking Freddie to continue has nothing to do with him warming up to the idea, he just wants to know why.

“I was thinking that you would get pregnant as soon as possible so that over the summer you have some security. You don’t talk to management in Ottawa, you go to the press and tell them that I’m the father, that this happened weeks ago. We know Dubas, he will do everything in his power to tie our contracts together for as long as the kid needs both of his parents and with me asking for an extension, that could be for years.”

The longer Freddie talks for, the more he moves back into the seat of power. Connor, on the other hand, feels like he’s about to throw up. “Everyone out there will _hate_ me,” he points out.

“People will be upset at you no matter what you do.”

“Freddie, this is wrong. You can’t bend the contract negotiations like this.”

He knows now why the hotel room was out of the question. This is a new level of cheating. Up there with injuring players to bring another team to its knees. This has nothing to do with skill. 

“That’s why we won’t tell anyone. As far as they will know, it was an accident between the both of us.”

“A child is not a hobby or something to trade away. I don’t even know what we’d do with a kid of our own.”

“During the regular season, he could be with us and in the offseason, he could come live with me and my family. My parents have wanted grandchildren since as long as I can remember. You would never have to worry about childcare.”

“We would be in and out of the kid’s life.”

“The fact of the matter is it would guarantee you a spot on the Leafs. There is no plan in place for how to deal with this. It means we have a great shot, better than anything else they could come up with.”

The idea of growing a human inside of him for the chance to live out his dream is a lot. Now he really feels sick. He needs to brace one arm on the wall to keep from falling over.

Freddie must see the damage he’s doing because he drops whatever point he was about to make and instead collects Connor in his arms. Connor doesn’t know what to say or do. In all his years playing not once did he think about using a child as a way to stay where he was. With how taboo it is in the league for a player to get pregnant in the first place, it’s hard to think of even a single person that would support him.

He needs to get away from this.

“Can I use your bathroom?” he asks softly. Freddie overcompensates to try and put him back in a good mood, pushing Connor down the hall with both hands.

Connor takes his sweet time splashing cold water on his face. It does little diminish the nausea somersaulting in his belly, doesn’t come close. He could wait it out and sit on the toilet lid until his vision corrects itself but strangely enough, he also kind of wants to fuck himself up a bit knowing what’s going to be waiting for him tomorrow.

Freddie, worried of course, knocks on the door after Connor has been in there for a few minutes. “I can drive you home, if you like,” he says. The door muffles his words.

“I’m okay!” Connor shouts back at him. Water is running down his face, following the curve of his chin and dripping down on his knuckles. He dries his hand on the hand towel provided, folding it to put it back on the rack when he’s finished.

He exits the bathroom looking more like a mess than when he went in there. The collar of his shirt is wet with what dripped from his chin and ears. His hair is sticking out from the back in what looks like a style he would wear in Juniors.

Freddie is there waiting for him, spooked. It’s somewhat refreshing to see him coming to terms with what he asked. Freddie being divorced from the fear Connor was experiencing was half of what made Connor need to leave. He doesn’t want Freddie playing his cards close to his chest. If they’re going to do this, everything needs to be out in the open.

Connor rubs his face with his right hand. “Do you got something around here I can drink?”

It’s how they end up by the liquor cabinet downstairs. Connor’s there more to forget what is happening to him behind the scenes and Freddie to get over the embarrassment of asking his friend to have sex with him for the hopes it would ground him in the city he loved. 

Connor doesn’t drink to excess. He uses the alcohol to help shut up that voice in the back of his head and slow the poison to the speed of molasses. It’s the first time that evening it’s not on the mind, par from the times Freddie brings it up and reminds him all over again. For the most part, he’s at peace. He is swirling the clean glass in his hand, listening to Freddie speak about nothing in particular.

To be here in his company is not a fate worse than death. Freddie is nothing but capable. He’s like liquor in that he helps take the edge away. He gives Connor the physical contact he wants when he asks for it and fills the room with his body when Connor needs his space. He keeps Connor’s glass full, be it with alcohol or water, on request.

Deep inside of Connor incubates Freddie’s words. It’s hours later when he’s started to fully process what idea Freddie was laying out on the table in front of him. The idea of him being with child. He drops a hand to his stomach. He knows Freddie sees it; there’s a deep swallow from beside him. 

He looks Freddie in the eye. “What do you get from me being pregnant?”

Freddie’s answer is simple, “a kid.”

Okay. He’s known about Freddie wanting a child since the beginning of the season, back when it came up in conversation. Freddie was always talking to the new fathers, showing an interest unlike any other in the children that would come to the locker room, sometimes giving their fathers permission to put them on his pads like he said his father did when he was young. Freddie’s not old by any means but he comes from a big family. Time spent playing means a subtraction on the number of children he and his partner can have.

Connor downs his glass. He maintains eye contact with Freddie.

“So what was your plan? If I let you, would you fuck me?” He’s buzzed enough for the words to roll off of his tongue.

He credits himself on keeping a straight face as he says it. Freddie is not as good. It’s probably a thing he was thinking about but could never say. For Connor to lay him out in the open like this is something new. 

“I mean, you have a few drinks in you, maybe we should wait.” Seconds after the words leave his mouth, Freddie’s eyes squeeze shut. He waves his hand. “I mean, if you _were_ interested, maybe we could meet up sometime in the week when you feel ready.”

“This is time sensitive though, so you said. The longer I wait the more apparent it becomes that what happened wasn’t an accident.”

Freddie uncrosses his legs. His big thighs are on display. “What are you saying, Connor?”

It’s unhealthy to think about, but he’s never going to be good enough to ever stand out. He’d rather be hated in Toronto than loved in Ottawa.

Connor takes a leap of faith. “I’m saying: what if we did try?”

Freddie gives him one long look. Connor has to be careful about what he says now. 

He neuters the power of what he says by coming back to it before Freddie can speak again. “Not a lot or anything. Just, one night. If it takes, it takes. If it doesn’t take, then, well, we go our own ways.”

“You want to do that? If it's something I said--I don’t want it to seem like I’m pushing this on you if you don’t want it.”

Connor picks at some dead skin in between the gaps of his fingers. “So riddle me this, how long have you been thinking about this? Answer me honestly.” He looks down as he speaks.

Freddie takes his time in answering him. “I mean--” he stops himself and starts again, “it just hit me at the dinner. Watching you.”

“Did you think of me as attractive or--”

“No. No, I mean how sad you looked, how it looked like you would do anything to be in Toronto. I felt like we were perfect for each other. We both have something the other wants.”

“Any girl or boy could carry your baby for you. What sense does it make for it to be a player?” Connor pushes him farther and farther. He wants to test his limits, hear what he really thinks.

“Is this your way of trying to get me to admit you’re attractive?”

Connor shakes his head, even though that’s exactly what he was trying to get at; if this was romantically motivated or not. “No, I’m just curious.”

“I think you’re good company and pretty in the face. It doesn’t define you or dominate my opinion of you, but I would pick you out from a lineup, if that’s what you wanted to hear.”

It’s flattering to have Freddie think of him like that. Even if it’s just his face.

Connor clears his throat. “Do we have to be in a relationship?”

“We have to make public appearances of course.”

“That’s at least five years you’re going to have to do without seeing anybody in Toronto.”

“I’ll be busy with my kid.”

“And what if I’m not ready for a child? Would you raise it by yourself?”

Freddie loosens his shirt collar. “Of course. This isn’t me being impulsive, Connor. I have thought about this for a long time.”

“Yeah well,” Connor kicks his legs up. A tiny laugh slips out from him. “I haven’t. I’ve never even had sex with a man before." 

“I figured.”

“I’m not opposed to it, I just don’t know what happens.”

“I’ll walk you through it, if that’s what you want.”

Connor looks up through his lashes. He’s not trying to be coy, he’s trying to use them as a shield. “Will it hurt?” His voice shrinks down.

“At first, yeah. We’ll go slow.”

Connor’s hands are shaking. He knows what he’s about to agree to, had the whole night to think about it. Still, when he lets Freddie take him by the arm and show him upstairs, he’s switching between emotions so fast that on the outside he must look like he’s having a seizure.

Connor picks up both of their glasses in one hand and deposits them by the sink as they walk up, arguing back that he’s responsible for his own mess when Freddie insists on doing it for him. He wishes that the banter would continue for a while longer, if only to prolong the inevitable. Being in Freddie’s bedroom for all the wrong reasons is no victory, nor is the act of him stripping himself down to nothing.

When he is naked, he has no idea where to put his hands or look. Freddie probably looks at this as being nothing out of the ordinary but Connor feels like the walls have become a peanut gallery. It’s a summer evening in an apartment where the air conditioning unit has only been on for the last hour and he’s cold of all things.

It does look like Freddie feels something toward what he’s seeing. The first thing he does is ask permission to touch Connor. Once he gets it, his large hands press flat to Connor’s lower stomach. Connor helps himself by looking away. If Freddie is trying to culture him, it’s going to take a lot more than a single touch.

“Right here,” Freddie says. “This is where he’ll be.”

“How can you be sure it will be a boy?”

“Usually Andersens’ first kids are boys.”

Connor can’t manage much now except a nervous laugh. “You’re batting for a fifty-fifty chance here, bud.”

Freddie smiles but says nothing more. He leads Connor to the bed, gentle, and helps turn him around. Freddie’s instruction gets Connor on his hands and knees, holding his position as Freddie comes around with pillows for his face, elbows, and lower half to help cushion him. Being here gives Connor a convenient sense of security, something akin to having covers on a bed even when it’s hot outside. 

Freddie is taking his time with everything he does but there’s an underlying urgency Connor can sense. He won’t go ahead and say Freddie is immune to the view of someone presenting themselves to him, even if Freddie and the desperate vibe mix like oil and water. It could just be that Connor never got the chance to see it before now.

Despite hearing the bottle cap and the sound of the drawer closing beside him, he’s surprised to feel the hands pull his cheeks apart and circle his hole with one finger. Connor buries his face in the mess of downy feathers and white tassel to try and hide from what’s about to happen. 

“I’m ready if you are,” says Freddie, ever the calm one of the both of them. His free hand pets Connor just above his ass, drawing small circles. If trying to calm him down is supposed to be the goal, he will be sorry to hear that it only makes the sense of impending doom come faster.

Connor gives him the go-ahead with a tiny ‘yes’ that could be mistaken for a sneeze. Connor was going in expecting a band-aid type of operation, a quick insert that would give his body a short amount of time to process what was happening to it. Freddie is the opposite, he makes sure Connor feels the introduction of his finger. Globs of lubricant slide down Connor’s thighs. 

Freddie likes the vocal approach of explaining what he’s doing and what Connor looks like. Things Connor would probably go his entire life without hearing, like how he’s spreading Connor’s legs apart and hoisting his ass higher up in the air for a better angle. He tells Connor when he’s inserting another finger and what that strike of pleasure is when he curls his fingers.

“Oh,” Freddie bends over to kiss Connor’s back. Connor is responding only with a full-body shiver. “You’re doing so well. That feel good?”

Connor nods his head to get Freddie to repeat what he did, rewarded with another jolt. It’s a tad disheartening to know that someone else knows more about his body than he does but Connor’s not going to be losing any sleep over it. He’s going to take the ball and run with it here.

Freddie fingers him for such a long time, Connor finds it in himself to become bored even how the positive reinforcement that comes with a touch to his prostate. Despite how abnormal the situation is for him, Connor gets the gist fast about Freddie trying to stretch him, so when it stops being about Freddie scissoring his fingers and more just the motion of fucking into him, he’s confused.

He turns his head to the side so that he can see the flash of ginger hair in his periphery. “Are you going to do it?”

“Are you ready?” asks Freddie. He still has his boxers on. Connor looks away when he sees Freddie’s fingers test the waistband.

When Freddie first enters him there’s a sharp pain. Freddie is trying to ease into him as slow as he can but it’s easier said than done with what he’s packing. Connor’s fear of it isn’t helping. He’s trying to force out the foreign object trying to enter him, body tuning in to its fight or flight response as it tries to get him out of there.

Freddie is trying to help him along with a hand on his hip and a mouth beside his ear. “Every time you take an inch, breathe out. It will help with whatever you’re feeling.”

“It doesn’t feel great,” Connor gets out. It’s excruciating. It feels like nothing Freddie did under the name of foreplay helped him relax. His molars clamp down in his mouth.

He’s working backwards from the baseline assumptions he has about sex and learning things as he goes along. Clearly, Freddie likes it a bit rough. He likes when Connor has that sharp intake of breath, usually when he’s forcing his cock deeper into him. That’s what gets him going, makes his dick throb. Connor can feel all of it. He knows when what he’s doing is getting to Freddie.

Similarly, Freddie is also painting by numbers here. They’re not the bestest of friends; Connor has his cock up his ass and that’s the extent of their trust here. Connor doesn’t ask that Freddie worship him with his lips or stroke his sides but it’s nice when he does. It brings him back to the tender moments they shared together in the sanctity of the shared locker room. Those moments might be the prologue to this all. He wants them back, he wants to be coddled by everything Freddie has to offer.

Connor’s jaw is slack. He puts out small grunts and moans when Freddie thrusts in. Above him, Freddie is talking to himself. It’s difficult to decipher what it is he’s saying. Some of it could be in Danish. The rest could just be too quiet to hear. It gets louder when Connor answers back, giving up his body and letting Freddie use him. It helps keep them in sync.

“Fuck,” Freddie’s head snaps up. His teeth just miss biting into the shell of Connor’s ear. “I’m going to come.”

The warning doesn’t come fast enough for it to be substantial. Just as Connor registers it Freddie is pumping come into him, in so deep that Connor can’t speak. The new sensation is electrifying. 

Freddie gives him a few more shallow thrusts, wrapping a hand around Connor’s cock and massaging the head so that he will orgasm too. Connor stops trying to hold off and finally gives himself that release he has earned. It’s different, coming while being fucked into. His body is extracting pleasure from more than one spot and the end result paralyzes him.

Freddie pulls out of him, Connor now clenching down around nothing. The body that was there to ground him is now not, with only a touch on the elbow to let him know Freddie is still with him. He tries to roll over on to his back. 

Freddie’s hand pushes him down. “You need to stay slanted, it helps the chances.”

In the heat of sex, he forgot what it was they were doing. Freddie was trying to impregnate him. They’re both responsible for whatever happens after this, even if the intentions are supposed to be good. He didn’t assign much value to having sex with Freddie. He pretended not to be present. 

This is a child they’re talking about, however. Having sex once gives him a one in a hundred chance of winning the biological lottery; whether or not that number fluctuates given his own fertility, he will never know. What did come clear over the sound of slapping skin and sweat on the backs of necks was exactly what he was doing all this for. He thought he knew before but now, there’s no doubt.

He grabs Freddie by the wrist and moans just loud enough to get his attention. “I want to be sure.” The words leave his lips in a rush. There’s nothing he can do to stop them. “Can we try one more time?” He hopes he sounds as desperate as he is.

Wanting to be sure isn’t what he said earlier, when it was a hit or miss on whether or not he wanted to stay. He knows the answer now. If bringing this child into the world will give him that shot at doing something great, then call him selfish.

It’s an offer Freddie won’t be able to refuse. He spends their refractory periods massaging the kinks out of Connor’s joints, peppering his face with kisses he was unable to give when Connor was facing down earlier. Their lips don’t touch but don’t need to. It is intimate as is, two slow dancers finally on the same rhythm. Connor’s not scared anymore.

In the morning, Connor is raw. It’s no hangover, but the physical implications of what they’ve done will last for longer than a few hours. The night was long and memories are spread thin but he knows the same can’t be said for Freddie. Freddie, who catalogued every feature on Connor’s body. Connor can still feel the imaginary heat of his hands on his belly.

Freddie sees him out the door with a kiss on the forehead. “I’ll see you in three weeks,” is all that comes out from him. That’s all the time he needs to make sure that Connor took.

If he didn’t want to gamble with the odds he could take the morning after pill, get it for nothing at all by the local drugstore and make sure his future stays in Ottawa, with him as the new big piece to help them climb out of the tomb other teams have been shovelling dirt into. He doesn’t think he will. He’s going to sit with what he’s done for three weeks. He’s going to know he gave it up for the chance to come home and soon, the world will too. 

**Author's Note:**

> Both parties consent to having sex and producing a child but the motivating factor is something out of their control. Freddie makes clear he is not trying to pressure Connor but given the circumstances of the arrangement can read somewhat like coercion because he is making an offer that Connor won’t refuse (not can't: Connor voluntarily puts himself into this position with the weight he gives his career in Toronto). He backs off when Connor gets upset and offers to drive him home. Both parties are somewhat drunk going into sex but are in a clear state of mind--they both consent to the best of their ability but it is worth noting that alcohol of any kind can tamper this. The prospect of being with child is used by both players to get what they want: they are using this child for their own needs and not necessarily because they want to be a family. Freddie is clear that the child will be cared and loved for after being born.  
> Connor is bisexual but this fact is only mentioned offhandedly. He has never had gay sex but is not a virgin to sex in general. Freddie walks him through it slowly and is patient with him.  
> If additional warnings need to be tagged please let me know.
> 
> come talk to me @cursivecherrypicking on tumblr!


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